


(27. Coat) / Roaring twenties, soft mornings

by Mothfluff



Series: GO-ctober Prompts 2019 [27]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Female Crowley (Good Omens), Fluff, Gen, Historical, Multi, October Prompt Challenge, One Word Prompts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-27
Updated: 2019-10-27
Packaged: 2021-01-04 17:34:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,132
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21201449
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mothfluff/pseuds/Mothfluff
Summary: My attempts at an October Challenge, using the original Inktober prompts for drabbles.(Each prompt will be posted as part of a series, not chapters, so I can add tags/characters/ratings/trigger warnings for each instead of the whole she-bang)Prompt 27 - CoatDinner had been delicious, as always, and Crowley in her evening dress had looked stunning, as always, and had eaten nothing, as always. She'd had a drink, though, and gloated about how good it felt to openly order it, not having to sneak around in some speakeasy to get a good gin & tonic, even though she was probably supposed to enjoy that all a bit more, demon and breaking the law and whatnot. Aziraphale had thought back to their short time in Chicago on the days before, after she'd run into him in one of said speakeasy's. He'd thought back to her in his rented apartment, a far better drink in hand as she stretched out on the settee and asked him about what he'd been up to, how he'd gotten to America now of all times. He'd thought back to her on the settee, glasses on the floor, all curled up, hair undone, fast asleep.





	(27. Coat) / Roaring twenties, soft mornings

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cheerios_and_wine](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cheerios_and_wine/gifts).

> The prompt is pretty much forgotten here, but I HAD to write this.  
VERY MUCH inspired by cheerios_and_wine's comment on my last fic of the series. "To just be able to enjoy simple pleasures like getting ready for the day or reading a newspaper in the security of the other's presence. To have soft mornings together."

London, 1925

“So, what do you think?” Aziraphale turned in front of the mirror once, twice, before turning fully to face Crowley, who was trying not to slip off of the chair the attendant had brought over.

“I think if this is the thing that made you drag me back to London from Chicago, it better be made from spun gold.”

“Now, there's no need for that.” Aziraphale tutted. “I only wanted your opinion.”

“What for? The suit's already made. You're going to not buy it if I say it looks stupid?”

“I might.” Aziraphale turned back to the mirror, inspecting the waistcoat, his voice turned quiet and almost shy. “You think it's stupid?”

A pause, a very troubled look in the mirror, before Crowley sighed and stood up to saunter over (made even easier by the height and swing her heels gave her).

“I didn't say that.” She straightened the lapels, patted along his shoulders, avoided his eyes. “It's a very nice suit. Fits well. Good choice of material. Something's missing, though.” She turned to the attendant waiting at the end of the dressing room. “I assume you have pocket squares and ties that match?”

“Certainly, ma'am.” The attendant, up to now a silent figure in the back, dashed out to the shop room to pick a selection. He was smart and well-trained enough not to interrupt or even pretend to notice a little lovers' quarrel (well used to them by now, anyway, after 5 years working in a men's tailors), and should've made an exit far sooner, but it had been to tempting. Mr. Fell had never, not once in his various visits to the shop, even mentioned a partner. Certainly not a wife. The lady that had strode in behind him earlier today was the last thing he would've imagined if Mr. Fell had ever mentioned anyone.

They'd picked out a very fetching tie and pocket square (or rather, she had picked one, and Mr. Fell had barely looked at it before agreeing to it), paid, and left with his usual friendly good-byes and promises of another visit, while she'd almost dragged him out.

His colleague sidled up to him.

“Well?” Humphrey asked. “What'd you hear?”

“I don't know what you mean.” Humphrey was fairly new, and not yet as well-versed in the proper behaviour in the shop, and Edward was not going to stoop so low as to gossip.

“Oh, come on. Fell showing up with a lass like _that_?” A pointed thumb thrown towards the door, where some of her perfume still seemed to linger. “You gotta find out what's going on there.”

“She merely mentioned coming over from Chicago. A very fashionable lady. Good eye for colours.”

“You know how he introduced her when they came in?” Edward had been in the backroom preparing the suit, so Humphrey had been left to greet them at the entrance. He probably hadn't even thought to offer to take their coats. “He called her 'Miss Crowley, a dear friend'. Hah! I'd like some friends like that.”

“I simply assumed she was his fiancée.” A stern look towards the younger attendant. “As you should, when a customer brings in a lady. Unless you know about a wife, of course.”

“Yeah, alright.” Humphrey let out a short whistle. “If he's managed to bag her as a fiancée, I wanna know his secret. To be honest, I always thought he was more... you know. Confirmed bachelor, and all that.”

Edward was not going to dignify that with an answer. However, he had wondered. There was no ring on her finger, he'd noticed as she'd taken the bag from him. The way Mr. Fell had looked at her as she hooked her arms around his elbow, though, left little to wonder about.

The bookshop hadn't changed even an inch since the last time Crowley'd been here years ago, safe for at least twenty new books stacked on top of the shelves.

Still, it felt different. Less... guarded. More protected. She was glad to get inside.

Things had been fine in Chicago, where most people didn't bat an eye at a clearly unwed couple in the streets, but this was London. Crowley's hair and pearls, just a tad too finely decorated for day wear, had already caused some ladies to stare her down on the street. She'd expected it to not feel any less troublesome inside the shop, with collections of angel statuettes staring her down just as well.

Sliding out of her coat, which Aziraphale promptly hung up on the hatstand, and settling down on the sofa in the backroom, made her realise that nagging feeling of constantly being watched had disappeared, though.

No one seemed to care. Heaven was still licking its wounds from the chaos of the years gone past, the Great War and all that came with it. They could be excused not to check in too often with their rather disengaged agent down on earth.

“Maybe I should change.” She mumbled over the rim of the glass Aziraphale had handed her. “Wouldn't want your neighbours to think you're having some sort of illicit affair.”

“And what are they supposed to think if I enter with a lady and leave again for dinner with a gentleman?”

“We're going for dinner now?”

Aziraphale stopped in his tracks, almost stumbling – and he'd finally looked so suave, too, filling his own glass – and mumbled just as quiet as Crowley had.

“Well, I'd assumed- if you're visiting, I mean, you've not been to the Ritz yet, and I-”

Crowley'd smiled, then, actually smiled, and Aziraphale's stutter had come to a halt. The reservations had already been made, anyway.

Dinner had been delicious, as always, and Crowley in her evening dress had looked stunning, as always, and had eaten nothing, as always. She'd had a drink, though, and gloated about how good it felt to openly order it, not having to sneak around in some speakeasy to get a good gin & tonic, even though she was probably supposed to enjoy that all a bit more, demon and breaking the law and whatnot. Aziraphale had thought back to their short time in Chicago on the days before, after she'd run into him in one of said speakeasy's. He'd thought back to her in his rented apartment, a far better drink in hand as she stretched out on the settee and asked him about what he'd been up to, how he'd gotten to America now of all times. He'd thought back to her on the settee, glasses on the floor, all curled up, hair undone, fast asleep.

No one had cared in Chicago. Hell was far too busy handling the mob's work across the entire continent. They could be excused not to check in too often with their rather disinterested agent up on earth.

“So.” Crowley dragged him out of his reverie. “Anything planned for the rest of the night? I'll assume the clubs here are not quite as up to date as back in the States. We should've gone over to Berlin, I know some very interesting corners there. Very up and coming.”

“I hadn't really thought that far.” Aziraphale finished his last bit of dessert, avoiding her eyes, piercing even behind the glasses. “I thought we could just retire back to the bookshop, I have a very nice bottle of Château d’Yquem I've been saving-“

„Of course you have.“ Crowley smiled, again, and Aziraphale made sure to commit that one to memory just as much as the past few days. “Well, let's get back to the shop then.”

The waiter gave them nothing but a bright smile and a polite goodbye as they left their tip – he was smart and well-trained enough not to eavesdrop, but it was hard to resist when Mr. Fell showed up with what could only be described as a luxurious show girl on his arm. He'd introduced her as Miss Crowley, and there was no ring on her finger, but something about the whole evening had made it more than clear that that was really the only thing missing. One was meant to assume a fiancée, anyway, if one didn't know about a wife.

Crowley'd fallen asleep on the sofa, again, after the bottle of Château d'Yquem had been emptied, and three others after it. Aziraphale had made sure not to jostle her awake as he brought her upstairs to bed (which, luckily, had been dusted only recently, considering it was mostly decorative) before retiring with a book – not in the backroom this time, but rather in the flat upstairs as well, which was usually mostly decorative itself. Something had pulled on him, asked him to stay, and he was used enough to temptation by now to know when it was safe to give in.

The demon was a sight to behold when she stomped into the sitting room the next morning – dress all akimbo from turning in her sleep, dark kohl lines mixing with red lipstick across her cheek, curls and curls of red hair almost obscuring her eyes. Gorgeous, Aziraphale thought, but was smart enough not to say out loud.

“Would you like some coffee?” He said instead.

“I'd kill for some coffee.”

Aziraphale got up as she sat down, putting down the newspaper to putter over to the small kitchen to start the coffee he'd prepared an hour ago. His tea had already been emptied, but he wasn't against making another cup to share with the demon currently spreading her arms across his table, almost falling back into sleep as the sun turned her hair into flames sprawled across the wooden surface. He could hear Crowley's yawning and grumbling all the way through the room. It was a nice change to his usual quiet. It was all a rather nice change.

No one was watching. Heaven and Hell were busy enough not to bother them with assigments right now, and far too busy to take notice of where they were, and what they were doing (or how little they were doing, wasting away the morning in comfortable silence ).

“Why'r'you wearin' that?” Crowley tugged on his coat as he brought the cups over.

“What? My coat?”

“The whole thing.” She waved (not with the hand that already held the coffee, luckily) all over him. “Didn't we buy a suit yesterday?”

“Oh. Well.” He brushed across his worn-out waistcoat that had become just as comfortable over the years as he had felt during the last few days. “I figured I'd save it for special occasions.”

“Special occasions.” Crowley, who'd dressed up every day for the past century, repeated. “Alright.” Why she had to come from Chicago to London just to give her opinion on a suit he wasn't even going to wear with her around, she wasn't quite sure. She might have an inkling, though.

London, 2020

“The Twenties. Again.” Crowley was staring into the night sky, even as rockets and explosions obscured the view of the stars. “Wonder if it'll be as fun as the last time around.”

“We'll just have to make it fun now, I suppose.” Aziraphale handed him the refilled champagne glass they'd just emptied at midnight (or maybe slightly after, factoring in the time spent on the traditional New Year's kiss).

“D'you remember when I saved your bum in Chicago in '25? That was fun.”

“I remember.” Aziraphale joined his side, leaning on the railing of the plant-filled balcony the bookshop had acquired in the past year.

“And then we went back to London and got drunker than we ever could in the US. That was the first time we went to the Ritz together, remember?”

Aziraphale remembered the Ritz, and the surprised waiter, and the Château D'Yquem. He remembered fringed dresses and perfect curls and red lipstick. He remembered the smell of perfume stuck to his bedsheets for weeks. He remembered Crowley's quiet snoring, his yawning and grumbling, his slow putter in the morning around the flat right behind them now that hadn't changed an inch since then, except to make space for some statues and a painting and a lot of plants.

He remembered simple pleasures, soft mornings. He'd remembered them a lot in the past decades, leading up to the new 20's.

“D'you remember the suit you bought? I bet those attendant had a field day, with me showing up in your dressing room.”

“I still have that suit.”

“Of course you do.” Crowley smiled, again, like he did often now, and just like Aziraphale remembered. “Kept it nice and clean for special occasions, hm?”

“Tip top shape.”

“Good.” Crowley's hand rested on Aziraphale's on the railing, trailed across the ring on his finger, next to the winged signet ring. “You'll need it in the new Twenties. For a special occasion.”


End file.
